


Born Under a Burning Desire

by orphan_account



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Sparring, introductions, there's nothing to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:29:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22459537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Nenet and Oberyn are old friends with the same hatred for all things Lannister.
Relationships: Oberyn Martell & Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 8





	Born Under a Burning Desire

King’s Landing is not that far from the Isle of the Angry Sun, but the society is vastly different and far too unbearable for Nenet’s liking. Temperatures are relatively the same, save for the scorching heat of a blazing sun on the sand, and one could feel the remnants of a sea spray if they venture far enough away from the shitting smell of the city. 

How is it that a city so struck with poverty be controlled by the rulers of the entire land? If they don’t care about the people here, then surely they must not care about those they need not deal with personally. But, of course, they deal with nothing personally. Sitting amidst jewels and expensive wine and a court of esteem, they deliver expressionless orders to be carried about by those who serve them only for a place to sleep in the night. 

Staying atop the social graces of the highest rung of the ladder must be so terribly tiring.

Nenet’s head throbs with all the new sounds and smells invading her senses and her heart aches at the sight of beggars, vendors, and orphans all crowding the streets to witness the newest arrival for the king’s wedding. If only they lived in Dorne, they’d be given ample opportunity to prove their worth. Alas, Nenet is not home where she could train on the beaches at sunset or quench her relentless thirst for knowledge by reading yet another unopened book in her castle’s grand library. 

No, she’s here with her parents and sister, settling for the courtesy of attending a wedding of no importance to any of them. With a land currently at war, it is best to play things safe until the fighting hits home. That is how House Mayet has survived thus far. Because they do not strive for a higher standing nor do they take the bait of mockery. The Day of Reckoning will come, and until then they must simply bide their time. 

The castle with its spires and towers looms over the city with Lannister blood spilling from the windows. Nenet eyes the highest point, wondering what horrific secrets she might find inside. Such a thought calms her for surely there must be something worse than the rumored incest between the golden twins. At least the lords and ladies of their court have the sense not to outwardly voice their opinions on such an outlandish statement. Unfortunately, she can’t say the same for herself considering incest is how her house has stayed so pure for so long. 

“These people need better rulers,” her mother says, voice crisp with conviction, “rulers who care for them.”

Lady Thmei Mayet, daughter, granddaughter, and great-granddaughter of many great lords and ladies. As healthy a mix as her daughter of strength and intelligence, her extraordinary skills lie in combat. Particularly with a spear in hand. As the only child of Lord Psametik, most of her days were spent in study or training, with her favorite pastime being a thrilling hunt with her father. She grew up as much a lord as a lady with a long queue of suitors waiting for their turn. She quite likes to brag that it’s the markings imprinted onto her bare scalp that make her such an attraction to men and women alike. 

“We are here for a wedding, not politics, darling,” Nenet’s father replies, eyeing his wife with a raised brow.

Lord Tachus Mayet, first cousin and once removed to Thmei, revels in a much more humble disposition than his wife. Mayets value dexterity in both mind and body, and Tachus found his specialty in strategy. War strategy, political strategy, even strategy in the deadlier game of society. Nenet finds his wit refreshing, impressed over and over with his innate ability to talk his way out of many situations. Often the mediator, his true intentions are rarely to settle a fight for agreement but merely out of aggravation. Unnecessary squabbling is truly loathsome when the answer is often obvious.

“Would that I could carry them all back home and give them a soft bed and fresh food to eat.” Nenet looks over at her older sister, watching as tears well up in her big, brown eyes.

Ahmes Mayet, oldest daughter and quite emotional at the best of times. Averagely smart, averagely skilled in combat, her biggest strength, which is at other times her biggest flaw, lies in the kindness and generosity of her heart. ‘Everybody has a story,’ she often says. Nenet reminds herself to keep Ahmes away from Flea Bottom, the poor girl’s heart would shatter without repair. And to help keep her tongue in cheek when in the presence of the Bratty King. 

The family of four, each riding a palfrey, along with their entourage of guards and maids make their way to the Red Keep at a steady, regal pace. Their strange dressings, markings, and general attitude make for quite the sight for all the onlookers. From their almond-colored skin, their revealing clothes, and air of authority to the simple fact that the women are riding their own horses in equal measure to the men.

Nenet keeps her head high and gaze forward, opting to keep quiet in response to her family’s conversation as they cross the threshold into arrogant royalty. It’s as if the air has become thicker, heavier with a sense of foreboding; the environment has changed drastically and she can feel it deep in her bones as a breeze of warm wind brushes across her freckled cheeks. Something is stirring. 

~ ~ ~

Nenet awakens underneath her silk sheet the morning of the penultimate day before the wedding. The windows are open, letting the air circulate throughout the stuffy room as Flavia, her personal maid and confidante, pulls back the curtains to allow the sunshine to break through her haze of sleep. 

“Is it not polite to wake as I please and show as I please?” Nenet groans, placing her arm over her eyes to block the sudden light.

“One can never be too cautious here in the capital,” Flavia replies, shuffling through the wardrobe for an appropriate outfit.

“Yes, as I’ve been so taught.” Nenet rises from the bed, the sheets pooling around her hips as she stretches with a wide yawn before standing.

As practiced and rehearsed from many a morning in foreign territory, her bare feet take her to the collapsible wall just as Flavia hands her a burgundy harem suit. The ladies of this court may wear tight corsets with plunging necklines and layered skirts, but the women of Dorne are far less modest than that. 

The suit, which requires no help from a lady’s maid, accentuates Nenet’s lithe body perfectly. The pants flare out before tightening at the ankles, as is customary of any harem style, with a slit starting from the hip down to just above the knee. A brown belt is worn around the waist just for an extra cinch of unchasteness. Her unblemished back, smooth and supple and strong, is bare, the top of the suit covering only her frontside. The neckline, secured with a knot behind the neck, forms a V, the lines connecting to a point just above the waist, showcasing everything that leads one to want more. 

She finds the utmost humor in the looks she’ll receive because this piece is one of her more casual ones. 

For finishing touches, her hair, lusciously long and sleekly black, is braided down her back, accented with a simple, brown headband. On her feet, she dons ordinary sandals that become quite worn over the years. 

Flavia smiles when she steps out from behind the wall, appraising, “Beautiful as always.”

“Thank you.” She grasps a book in hand. Now let’s see whose cock we can stir today.”

Flavia laughs heartily at Nenet’s vulgar words, knowing the young woman never intends for all to find her as attractive as they do. They always wonder why she never reciprocates, but she knows it’s simply because she never feels the same. 

Nenet has found one, small joy in King’s Landing: the gardens. Not for the flowers because they’re much the same as anywhere else in the world, but for the silence and privacy. Hardly anybody disturbs her here. Occasionally, a lordling and his lady with venture down the pathways and sneak a peck on the lips before they must go back to their parents or a mother will bring her upset child to be soothed by the bright colors and soft petals. Although, for the most part, Nenet is free from the inane small talk and air of superiority surrounding everyone. 

“Lady Nenet,” a deep voice says, and she smiles in spite of the interruption, “hiding amongst the flowers as always, I see.”

She doesn’t turn nor stand as she replies in greeting, “Prince Oberyn. You know I despise socializing. Besides, you do enough talking for me and the rest of Dorne, anyhow.”

He sits beside her, stretching out his legs and leaning back, casually peeking over to see what it is she’s reading. “I suppose I do. I’m only playing the field.” 

“A field I want no part of.” She sighs, closing her book and finally turning to look at him.

He is a striking man, indeed, with a square jaw accompanied by neat facial hair and a downturned nose as the most obvious features of his face. Black eyes, tanned skin, and black hair peppered with slight grey at the roots, he is a man sought after by many if not for his looks then his open attitude towards anything sex and romance. He is man Nenet considers a great friend and ally despite his being over ten years her senior. 

He wraps an arm around her, allowing her head to fall onto his strong shoulder. “You are, unfortunately. And there is no escaping it.”

They sit there, content in each other’s presence after an arduous few days amongst people they do not like and who do not like them. Oberyn remembers the day Nenet was born; seeing her tiny hands curl into fists as if she was already shaking her fist at being born into such esteem, he felt as much of a brotherly affection for her as he did his own sister. His jaw clenches, remembering his underlying intentions for coming to King’s Landing. He failed Elia, only able to give her justice now for all that was done to her, but he would not fail Nenet. 

“Do you feel as if the Lannisters are choking you with invisible hands as I do?” Nenet finally says, feeling the clenching of Oberyn’s jaw and knowing exactly what he was thinking of. 

So intuitive. ‘The Witch’, as much as it is a slur to anyone who calls her that, is not far off. Oberyn does not think all witches are evil nor all magic bad, and he likes to think Nenet is as close to one he’ll ever meet. 

“All the time.” The words are hard to release, almost swept up by a wave of sudden emotion to come falling from his eyes. 

“Perhaps we should spar,” she suggests, standing up and holding a painted hand out to him, “I should like to beat you at least once in this lifetime.”

He smiles as he takes her soft hand in his and stands. “You have.”

“That does not count. You let me.”

~ ~ ~

Sweat shines underneath the glare of the sun against Nenet’s skin, but her grip on her khopesh remains tight and balanced. Oberyn is fairing just the same, having shed his robes so that he may breathe a little, bare chest glistening just as brightly. The two have been at it for quite a while, having attracted an audience that has come and gone as the fight seems well-matched. As soon as one has the upper hand, the other will pull a sneaky trick and they’ll be back to clashing sword and spear. 

Suddenly, as Nenet is preparing to swing down on Oberyn, he backs aways, arches his arm back, and throws his spear. It flies past her head, whooshing in her ear as her eyes widen, and turns as it the ringing of it striking wood resonates throughout the grounds. Lord Baelish, otherwise known as Littlefinger to anyone who knows of his multitude of secrets and lies, stands shocked and frightened just a hair’s breadth away from the blade.

“You keep your eyes off of her or I will slit your throat and hang your body by the wound for the dogs to eat,” Oberyn states, venom dripping from his words, deadly and menacing. 

Littlefinger gulps, attempting to regain his composure as he only nods in response before scurrying away.

Nenet turns back to her oldest friend, eyes shining in amusement and affection. “I could very well cut his balls off to feed to those same dogs myself if he ever tries to touch me.”

Typically, he’d jest with her, but that determined look he’s had in his eye since they’d first seen each other only hardens. “I could not do right by Elia. Let me do right by you.”

“Oberyn…” she sighs, dropping her khopesh to the ground and taking his hand to bring it to her chest, “I know your intentions for being here are far beyond this disastrous wedding, but your sister would not want you doing something stupid no matter how justified you think it is.”

“Nenet, I-”

“I’m not going to stop whatever your plans are. In fact, I would ask to join you.”

The pleasant surprise that spreads across his face is just the reaction Nenet had been hoping for. 

“Up for killing a few Lannisters and Lannister supporters?”

“Always.” She kisses his hand, and they share a look of two planning a great massacre to shock the Gods. The Lion cannot match the Red Viper and The Witch.


End file.
